


synchronicity

by asakami



Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 09:14:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7929133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asakami/pseuds/asakami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What I said that night… I meant everything, you know?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	synchronicity

**Author's Note:**

> PURE ROSE/ALISHA FLUFF

 

The first time you see her is when you miss the last train home.

Your phone is dead; it’s dark and you’re cold and hungry and— _oh—_ what you wouldn’t give for a hot shower. The girl appears then, not more than fifteen minutes later, looking just as helpless, and sits at the far end of the small station. You turn to look at her, being the nosy person that you are. You don’t turn away fast enough, though—and you don’t regret so because when have you ever come across such clear, emerald eyes?

She nods as you continue to stare, and she just smiles sheepishly; you, in return, just grin like an idiot.

Because, like, she’s pretty and everything. And she looks a bit too classy and elegant and princess-like. Or, just. She _looks_ intimidating.

But you know you’re just giving yourself excuses. She’s probably really nice. A sweetheart, maybe. You can easily talk to her. You’re _good_ at talking—it’s what you do best. It’s just the nerves. And… like, the fact that she’s not talking to you means she doesn’t want to be bothered, right?

So you just sit here, letting the mosquitos drain all the blood from you for four hours straight.

.  
.

The second time you see her is when you are waiting for the train.

She is standing at the platform opposite of yours, so it isn’t hard for you to spot each other. You think that she sees you first, because when your eyes meet again, she is already smiling and waving.

Just so you don’t embarrass yourself, you look behind to make sure she’s not waving at somebody else. Then you return the gesture by smiling like an idiot (again). You’re inclined to go over to her platform, to formally introduce yourself—because you thoroughly regret that you didn’t on that night—but then the announcer comes on and says that the train on her side is arriving.

You think you’re hallucinating at first, because the girl’s face just _drops_ like all the happiness in the world has been erased. You smile a little to her reaction. When she steps in the train, you see her making her way to the window so she can wave at you one last time.

You wave back, sadly.

And you don’t break eye contact until the train is out of sight.

.  
.

The third time you see her is on campus.

Yes, you go to the same university but you’ve never bumped into her. It’s nothing surprising though. The campus is huge with a whopping number of fifty-thousand students. Anyway, you’re taking advantage of the discount you get as a student and have just finished a good two-hour swim in the campus pool. You smell of chlorine and your hair is gross (you refuse to use the showers here because… _egh,_ just no) when you crash into her (actually, she crashes into you because she’s the one running) right outside the gym.

“I’m so sorry!” she gasps, but once she realizes that it’s you, she softens up and you swear that her smile literally _illuminates._

You’re about to say something cheesy like _you shouldn’t be, because I’m glad it’s you_ or whatever, but then you see her looking all antsy and restless and just nervous in general. So you figure that she’s probably late to class, which explains the running. You sigh and help pick up the textbooks she’s dropped. “Here you go.”

“Thank you,” she says as she stands up.

You want to talk to her, and you know she wants to stay and talk as well, but it’s already ten past eleven, which means classes are in session. You breathe out with amusement and gesture at her to start running. “Come on, go go go! Don’t let me keep you.”

Her smiles turn apologetic and she does run. But she turns around one more time to wave at you before sprinting off.

Once again, you wave back, sadly.

.  
.

The fourth time you see her is at a nightclub.

It’s a Friday night. You get invited (dragged) by the gang to go for some drinks. You’re hesitant at first, because you’re feeling more of a movie-marathon-night. Y’know, some alone time with yourself. But you forget that Lailah can be _very_ convincing, Edna is the master at guilt-tripping, and that Sorey and the rest of the boys like your company, and they all just want to hang out with you, really. So you comply. You opt for a simple tank top and a pair of leggings as your outfit. One of the reasons you don’t like clubbing is because you have to wear heels. You hate heels, but you wear them anyway because… where and when else are you going to wear these? You don't bother much with hair, save an effortless, messy ponytail (because the length of your hair limits the styles you can do, anyway), and you put on as little makeup as possible because fake eyelashes and all that bullshit takes so freaking long to wash off.

Your gang has a typical _ten-minute-or-so_ argument with the bouncer about Edna’s age and that she’s not faking her ID. It’s successful, of course, because the truth is that Edna _is_ over nineteen and is totally legal. She’s just an early bloomer, that’s all.

Zaveid manages to pull a few strings with the manager of the nightclub and your gang gets one of those VIP tables. Not that it’s necessary—you were going to spend most of the night dancing, anyway. But it’s all good, because you have you share of fun playing games and chugging a few shots of 151’s and jaeger bombs.

Naturally, you end up on the dance floor. You’re not sure if Lailah dragged you or if you got here yourself, but you’re dancing away as the music pounds into your eardrums. Guys and girls occasionally swarm over you (and you know that you’re actually _okay_ -looking even though you don’t really try), but you are not interested in having sweaty bodies rubbing on you, so you brush them off as politely as your inebriated mind allows.

Until you see a certain blonde girl who wears a familiar side-ponytail. She’s smiling so, _so_ wonderfully at you and you feel your knees buckle.

You don’t know what’s gotten over you— _it’s probably instinct_ —but you find yourself pushing through the crowd as you make your way towards her. And as you do so, many, _many_ things process through your mind.

You are going to ask her for her name. For her number. You are going to introduce yourself. You are going to tell her that every _freaking_ time you see her, you have always wanted to talk. You want to apologize to her for not saying anything on the first night. You want to tell her you regret not _jumping_ across the platform to greet her that day. You want to tell her that you could have waited until her class ended so the two of you could have hung out. But today— _today,_ you are going to dance with her.

Well, you _were._

Because some _guy_ just shows up in the middle of nowhere (it’s a club, but your drunk-as-hell mind is being extra sensitive) and stands between you and her. You see him grabbing her by the waist, pulling her dangerously close and that hand is slipping _down_ into her skirt. You see that she is very much uncomfortable and doesn’t want him at all. You see her trying to push him away, but it seems like the more she tries, the more aggressive the guy becomes.

And so you speed up—the strength you use to push the crowd is rougher, almost like you’ve taken some sort of power-up or whatever, and you put yourself between the girl and the _dickwad._

The _dickwad_ looks at you, an eyebrow raised. “Is there a problem?”

“Yes.” You say. “Yes there is. She doesn’t want your filthy hand touching her, so you best get the fuck out of here before I cut your dick off.”

You’re usually not so vulgar. You don’t know what’s gotten over you. Maybe it’s just a spur of a moment? Or it’s the alcohol. Yes, it’s definitely the alcohol.

“Do you know this chick?” The guy asks.

 _Oh, he’s still talking._ You just want to smack his snobby, arrogant face in until it turns concave. You’re fully capable, of course—you’re black belt karate and all. Your eyes sharpen as you _glare._ It probably freaked the guy out a bit, because you see him backing down.

“Yes, she’s my friend.” The girl speaks up. She pulls you behind herself and stands face-to-face with the guy. “Now, I would appreciate it if you left us alone.”

“Tch,” he gives you a look, but quickly drops it when he realizes that you are still giving him this _death glare_.

And you would have thrown yourself on him, strangling him until he turned completely blue if you had taken another shot, but. Well, let’s just say you should be glad you didn’t take that shot because you’d most likely end up in jail. Anyway, the asshole walks away, and the girl takes you by the hand, guiding you to the bar.

You clumsily climb up the barstool, and you try your best to look sober because for once, the two of you are alone. Kind of. Well, if you muted and barricaded all these people around, then yeah. So here you are, trying to act like you haven’t taken fifteen shots while the girl attempts to keep you sitting upright.

“Are you okay?” she asks. You can tell she’s really concerned, because she is rubbing your back and is ordering you a glass of water. 

“Mm… I, uh, took a few shots with my friends.” You mumble as she feeds you the water.

“Where are your friends? I think you should call it a night…”

“They’re… I don’t know. Back at the table?”

She continues to rub your back. It feels nice and you no longer care about the loud music and the crowd because you just want to fall asleep. But then you feel her wrapping an arm over your shoulder.

“Come on, let’s get you to them.” She says. “Can you stand?”

You’re too tired to feel bad about the entire situation. So you just nod. Your legs are weaker than you expect and she ends up supporting most of your weight.

The sweet smell of her perfume numbs your senses and you think that you’re _losing it._ “Y-you’re really pr-pretty…” _oh man_. You’re hiccupping. You hate it when you have hiccups.

You think that you’ve made her blush, because you feel her tense a little before immediately loosening up and mumbling a small, “Thank you.”

And is it your imagination? Because you swear on the remaining years in your life that she also added—

“I think you are as well.”

The music continues to pound in your ears, the lights are flashing and you are _this_ close to getting a seizure, but you don’t stop staring at her. You can’t seem to tear your eyes off her clear, emerald ones—and, is it just you, or do her eyes _sparkle_?

It’s probably just the flashing light.

But then your eyes wander to her lips. You stare at them and can’t help but to think— _how soft are they?_ You really want to know. You really, _really_ want to know. You look up, meeting her eyes again and you find her doing the same thing. You see her chest heave and you wonder if the situation would be as intense if you weren’t drunk.

 _Maybe not._ Maybe everything would be the same, except you’d be more ballsy and would _actually_ ask her the fuck out like you’ve always wanted to every time you see her.

“I’ll…” she starts, after a long moment of staring, “… take you to your friends.”

You don’t know why you don’t protest. You don’t know why you don’t tell her, _no, I want to stay here with you._

So she leads you to the tables, and asks each group— _one by one—_ if they were with you (she knows you’re completely wasted by now to answer, so she doesn’t depend on you). You’re sure that some tables would say something like _yes, she’s with us. Leave her here,_ just so they can take advantage of you, but somehow, you also know that the girl isn’t one to give in so easily. How do you know this? Well, maybe it’s because she’s holding onto you so tightly. And you haven’t felt so safe and secure for… hm, let’s just say, a long time.

Then finally, you hear someone call your name.

“Rose! What the hell are you doing?” It’s Dezel. He’s always overly concerned about you. Probably because you’ve known each other the longest.

You don’t exactly know what happened after, but you know that Dezel had to go through an _interrogation_ with the girl before she finally let you go with him. You know this because a frustrated Dezel spazzes at you about it the next day. It’s quite hilarious, but it’s also very sweet.

You ask Dezel what else happened last night, and he says that the girl basically followed you two back to the table. She was relentless and only backed down when the entire group worked together, showed her pictures on their phones to convince her that they are not strangers and are, in fact, your friends. Dezel adds that before she left, you two shared this ‘look of longing’ while waving at each other.

Damn. You’ll never hear the end of this from the gang.

.  
.

The fifth time you see her is at the hospital.

It’s nothing dramatic. You just neglected to go to that body checkup for, like, over a year now and you finally decided to get it over with. You bump into her in the elevator. Not alone, of course. For some _god damn_ reason, you two are never alone. It’s like some divine force is screwing around with you—it’s letting you two meet, but never lets you interact with one another. Probably because you messed up that _godsend_ of a chance the very first time?

So anyway, here you are, in the elevator. She’s on one end, and you’re on another. You’re about to make your way to her when doctors and nurses accompanying a patient lying on a stretcher come right in between you two.

You look at her, feigning annoyance as you roll your eyes.

She giggles, but realizes that it isn’t quite appropriate to be doing so when there is a person _dying_ right in front of her. You see her clear her throat and nervously turn her head away as a nurse eyes her. Her attempt is pointless, however, as you are giggling as well. The doctors, nurses, and even the dying patient glare at you like you’re some sick psychopath, and you don’t make any effort to stop.

Through the death stares, you see that the girl is shaking, covering her mouth as she, too, is laughing.

When the elevator stops, everyone but the two of you leaves—you glance at the floor number and see that it’s the E.R. The last nurse to leave gives you (and the girl) a very, _very_ scrutinizing look. One that says, _get your shit together,_ perhaps.

Once the elevator door closes, you turn to the girl and she turns to you. After a second or so, both of you burst out laughing. Thank goodness no one is here to witness this ridiculousness. You laugh to the point that tears fall from your eyes and your stomach starts to hurt. It must be the same for the girl because she is holding onto her stomach as she gasps for air.

“O-okay, okay… stop…” you manage. “This… this is not good.”

She tries. You can tell she really is trying. Because she’s taking deep breaths and is concentrating hard.

… but then she snorts and you _actually_ lose your shit. You laugh so hard that you lose balance and have to lean against the wall for leverage. You fall to the ground with a _clunk_ and you’re still laughing too much to care that you landed quite hard on your ass.

At least a minute or so later, you finally stop. You’ve never been so out of breath before. This certainly beats swimming nonstop for two hours.

“Here,” the girl says, reaching a hand out to you.

You smile and take it, letting her pull you up. “Thanks.” At the corner of your eyes, you see that none of the buttons are glowing—meaning the elevator hasn’t been moving and it’s a miracle that no one has walked in on this… _this._ The girl follows your eyes and she seems to understand as well, so she just shakes her head. Probably at your combined absurdity. “So,” you start. “Are you in a hurry today?”

She breathes out with amusement. “No, I don’t believe so. And… you’re not drunk today, right?”

“Psh,” you scowl playfully, “You should feel lucky you saw me drunk. It doesn’t happen often.”

You expect a retort—a playful remark, or something. But what comes out instead is—

“You’re right. I was very lucky.” Her eyes soften. “I’m glad you saw me that night.”

Took a moment, but you realize why she said that. It’s because of that _dickwad,_ of course—the one that you threatened to cut his dick off. The thought lingers in your mind. It clings onto you like a parasite and you just cannot get his arrogant face out of head. You argued back then that it was the alcohol that made you speak, but now you know that you really meant it. Because. When you saw that guy reaching into her skirt, you just…

“What I said that night…”

She blinks.

“… I meant everything, you know?”

There is this silence in the air that isn’t exactly uncomfortable. You would describe it to be… tense? Maybe even _hot?_ Because memories of what happened that night are resurfacing. The part where you stared into her green eyes, the part where you wondered how soft her lips were… and— _and_ just now, you realize how much you wanted to kiss her that night. You _still_ want to kiss her.

“I know,” she suddenly says, smiling.

You look at her, and she looks at you with an equal amount of anticipation.

Your heart _aches_.

_Fuck it. Just ask her. Just ask her out, damn it—_

The elevator door opens. Both of you are taken aback when the person enters. The atmosphere shifts immediately from something comfortable to that of awkwardness. He presses a button that appears to be the food court floor and the silence turns borderline unbearable. You look to the back of the man’s head. You _glare_ at him because you he’s ruined your groove and _everything—_

“Rose.”

You jump. The girl just called you by your name. You turn to her, eyes wide.

"T-that’s your name, right?”

You can only nod.

Her throat bobs. “Would you… um, like to sit down and have a drink t-together?”

 _Oh god._ Is she asking you out? Is this what you think it is? Wait. Did she beat you to it? “U-uh, um,” you stutter. _Come on, say something!_ “I… how do you know my name?”

“…”

_Wow._

Wow, wow, wow, _wow._

You can’t believe it. This is what you have to say, after going through so much. Even the guy is able to read the mood; he turns around to give you one of those _get your shit together_ looks.

You feel dizzy. You feel stupid. You want to kill yourself. Your head is spinning and you just want to reverse time. To make up for it, you quickly (stupidly) say, “Yes.”

The elevator arrives. You actually hear the guy sighing before he gets out. You ignore him because there’s no reason to care what others think—it’s been that way your entire life. So you hold onto the elevator door and gesture at the girl to go out first, “I’d love to have a drink with you, even if this is a hospital and the stuff here is crappy.” You want to add, _because I’m scared that if we drag this on any longer, one of us would have to leave and I’ll have to wait another few months to see you again,_ but… that would be going overboard.

She giggles as she steps out, and somehow, you know that she is thinking the same thing.

Turns out there is a decent coffee shop in the food court. You order a latte and she goes with a mocha and finally. _Finally_ , you two can sit down together. You learn that her name is Alisha, that she does indeed go to the same university as you, that her major is political science and she is trying to get into law school. You also learn that the _dickwad_ from that night is her ex. She asks if you were alright after she left you with your friends, and you can only laugh (because to this date, the gang still teases you about that _mysterious, ultra-responsible, elegant-as-hell ‘girlfriend’_ of yours). You thank her for her concern, and you even add a little remark—saying that she is much more chivalrous than any guy you’ve ever met. She blushes prettily to your compliment and you feel victorious when you make her smile.

But when you ask what she’s doing at the hospital, that genuine, sweet smile of hers turns forced. She looks at you sadly, and explains that she’s here to visit her mother, who is diagnosed with lung cancer, and is at her final stages. It sucks because she doesn’t even smoke, she explains. Before you can apologize, she shakes her head; she tells you that _everything is okay_ , and that _she’s ready when the time comes._ She tries to comfort you because you’re the one who looks stunned and confused and scared. But you also know that she’s saying all of this to comfort herself. She is trembling as she holds her hands together and just as you want to reach for them, her phone rings.

“Hello?”

A moment of silence. And then her expression changes. Her eyes widen, and she looks at you desperately. She nearly drops her phone—she nearly _falls off the chair,_ but you hold onto her by the shoulder.

You don’t need to ask her what’s wrong, because you already know.

“Alisha,” you reach for her hands.

They are ice cold and her face has turned pale.

“It’s okay. Take a deep breath. Do you want me to come with you?”

Alisha shakes her head. “No. No, I… I have to deal with this myself. I-I always do.”

You’re a little confused as to why she would say that, but you don’t ponder too long on that matter. “Then I’ll stay here,” you say.

Alisha swallows. She nods and runs back to the elevator. Just before the doors close, you two give each other that usual, _traditional_ , sad wave.

“I’ll wait for you,” you mouth.

She never came back.

.  
.

The sixth time you see her is a year later where everything began.

Your phone is dead (again); it’s dark and you’re cold and hungry (again) but— _oh,_ you’re not getting attacked by mosquitos this time. No. No, no. It’s much worse. The station isn’t closed either, but instead, the freaking _trains_ are out of order because of the snow. What luck.  

As you brush the snow off your shoulders, you notice a person sitting at the bench on other end of the platform.

Your heart swells when you realize that it’s her _._

It’s been so long, and she… _she’s so pretty._

Your statement just now that had no correlation whatsoever. You’re probably just super happy to see her again.

Her usual side-ponytail is worn lower with the ash blonde hair resting over her shoulder. She’s wearing a white pea coat that reaches her upper thighs—a bit of her black skirt peeks out from beneath. Your eyes follow the black pantyhose down, down to her dark grey boots that reach her knees. You realize that even though she is wearing so much, she is shivering from the cold. So you act quickly. You step up to her, taking off the fluffy yellow scarf you have around your neck and then you wrap it neatly around her. It takes her approximately two seconds to react but when she does and she looks up to realize that it’s you, her green eyes are _sparkling._

“Hey,” you whisper softly, grinning.

She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t _need_ to say anything. Alisha just stands and throws her arms around you, burying her face in your neck.

It feels natural, however sudden it may seem. You hold her with everything you have as you stroke the back of her head.

“I’m sorry,” she sobs. “I’m so sorry I didn’t come back.”

You breathe in. The smell of her perfume and yours from your scarf mingle together and it’s quite pleasant.

“It’s okay. I’m not mad.”

Alisha pulls back. Round, green eyes look at you with uncertainty. “A-are you sure?”

You chuckle at her expression because it’s honestly the cutest thing you’ve seen. You bump foreheads with her and you can see that her cheeks are pink. You’re pretty sure yours are as well. You see her eyes dart downwards—she is staring at your lips, and you unconsciously do the same. Her eyes dart back up just as yours do, then you realize: you two are silently asking each other for permission.

And you’re _done_ waiting. Your patience wears thin—it’s hanging by a thread, and you’re about to snap.

So you kiss her.

Everything after is a blur. She kisses you back, of course. When you pull away to breathe, she leans forward to kiss you again. That is the moment you know it isn’t just you; Alisha’s been wanting this— _you—_ as well. The thought makes you tingle and you move your hands lower, holding her hips to pull her even closer. But Alisha is shyer than you and it doesn’t seem like she knows what she’s doing; her fingers comb through your red hair and she’s really just testing things out. Yet her desperation overwhelms everything else and it’s getting more difficult for her to be subtle. Then again, it’s impossible to be subtle when one’s desperate.

So you grab her by the hand.

You don’t do this often. You don’t _feel_ like this often. In fact, this is probably the first time you’ve been so passionate about… well, _this._

“Alisha,” you whisper. You don’t have to continue, because she just nods and that’s all you need. Her fingers intertwine with yours and the two of you run down the empty, snow-covered road in what feels like _forever_ (your lungs burn as you run) until you stumble across a building. Can it be luck? It has to be luck. Because it’s a hotel and that is _exactly_ what the two of you need. You book a room at the front desk and can’t seem to grab the keycard fast enough. You avoid looking at her when you enter the elevator, because you know that when you do, _all hell will break loose._ It’s sheer will you’re able to hold yourself back, and you _desperately_ want to give yourself a pat on the back for being able to hold together for so long. But the simple contact you share with her— _your joined hands—_ is enough to get your centre _throbbing._ Maybe… _just_ a peek?

Not smart.

Because once you turn around—the _very_ moment you see the flecks of green in her eyes, the two of you are _tearing_ at each other. _Goodbye, Shy-Alisha,_ you think. She’s losing patience as well, because _she’s_ the one pushing you against the wall. _She’s_ the one attacking your neck, and _she’s_ the one trying to unbutton your coat.

Honestly, you don’t mind the roughness. But being the competitive person that you are, you obviously aren’t going to let this stand. The elevator door opens with the sound of a _ding_ and you push Alisha out, trapping her against the wall of the corridor. She winces a little at the impact, and you make it up by capturing her lips once again. She moans into your mouth this time, and the sound sends electric chills down your spine, triggering some sort of _drive_ within you; it pushes you onwards—just as you are pushing Alisha down the quiet corridor, all but the sounds of your panting and her heavy breathing echo in the air.

Your mind screams for you to focus— _look for the damn room, find the freaking bed first—_ but it’s really hard to navigate through these halls when you’re busy connecting lips with someone. Yet you make it, somehow. Alisha is against the door as you _feed_ on her and you’re failing so much on slipping that keycard into the lock.

You end up breaking away from the kiss for a total of _five seconds_ to focus on opening the door and, _holy shit,_ those were the longest five seconds of your life. Once you’re in the room, you waste no time with _anything_. You hit a switch and all the lights come on—and you feel as though somebody’s thrown a flashbang in your face. Alisha continues to walk backwards into the room as you guide her with your _natural_ instincts onto the bed. You fall on top of her, and the two of you don’t stop kissing as you rip each other’s clothes off. It’s so cute how she’s extra gentle when she’s removing the scarf (because it’s yours, and it’s so sweet of her to be so thoughtful even during such an intense situation), but everything else after is just _barbaric._ Like, you almost ripped your own bra off, for god’s sake. Oh, and you actually ripped her pantyhose when you tried to pull it down her legs. _Oops._

Speaking of legs.

_Fuck._

They’re so smooth and long and _creamy_ and _oh god oh god_ you can stare at them for days _._ But now isn’t the time to be distracted by legs alone when you have the entire _Alisha_ right here. You lean down to brush her bangs away from her round, _dilated_ eyes and you plant a small kiss on her lips, smiling contently as you listen to her pant.

“You good?”

Alisha’s eyelashes bat adorably and she nods. She wraps her arms around your neck and she shares with you another longing kiss before you move to her neck. You’re not sure if she’s okay with hickeys (you certainly aren’t), so you resort to giving her gentle nibbles and light kisses on her heated skin. She seems to like it, because she’s holding your head close, mewling as you move down to her chest, and her back arch as you capture a pink nipple in between your lips. _God,_ you know you’re doing the right thing when she moves like that. Your other hand cups her breast and Alisha is moaning and whimpering and it’s just _honey_ to your ears.

You move down to her flat stomach, down her navel, down, _down_ , and you spread her legs apart.

“Rose…” she whispers, her voice shaky.

Smirking, you grab onto her hips. She jumps a little and the heady scent permeates the air. It becomes thicker, _sweeter._ You breathe against her. She gasps but doesn’t protest. And that works as a _go_ for you.

“ _Ohh….”_

Alisha throws her head back as her hips rise to meet your tongue. You don’t hold her in place because you like that she is moving at you, setting a nice rhythm; you gladly follow her pace because you like it. You like _everything_ about her. So you watch, feeling lucky and fortunate and entirely _warm_ as Alisha’s voice fills your ears; she tries to stay quiet and it’s so _fucking_ adorable that she’s actually covering her mouth—but her other hand is reaching down, pulling your head in. You let her, of course. Because you love that her grip on your hair tightens as she reaches her peak.

“R-Rose!” she cries and her voice is muffled.

You love that the pitch of her voice gets higher, you love that she’s trembling, and you love how her back arches impossibly higher as you swirl your tongue inside while your thumb presses against her centre. She comes and you don't move away because she is still rolling her hips weakly and you know she’s going through some intense aftershocks (yeah, yeah—you’re incredible). You gladly help her through by stroking her centre until you feel her tugging at you, urging you to look at her. You glance up to see a look that can only say, _please kiss me_. Your heart melts at the sight and you move up to comply right away.

Her lips are so soft, _so soft._

Her fingers are even softer as they dance on your back, moving lower until they reach your hips. Her touch is gentle and careful and you can tell that she’s really nervous. _There’s nothing to be scared of,_ you want to say as you hover over her, never breaking eye contact and you smile to reassure that _everything is okay._ She exhales, her breath is uneven and she seems more scared than you are when she is the one asking for permission this time.

It’s not like she needs it.

Because it feels incredible and despite being a frequent partygoer, you don’t actually have a whole lot of sex. You make out with people once in a while— _just_ make out, of course, and, oh, that’s how you met Sorey! He and you were somewhat a thing, back in the day. But things didn’t really work out. The two of you remained good friends, though. Anyway, where were you going at this? _Right._ You don’t have a lot of sex, you justify, and that is probably why this feels so good. You roll into her touch as her fingers curl. The feeling is beyond what you’d imagined; it’s probably also because you’ve been waiting so long for this moment— _subconsciously or not_ —that’s why everything’s amplified when it actually _is_ happening. You moan into her hair, you call out her name against her ear. Your arms wrapped around her waist tighten as your fingers dig into her soft skin. It makes her move faster; it makes _you_ want it faster.

It makes you want her all over again.

You keep an arm circled around her slim waist but your other hand moves lower. You want to feel her, fully, _completely._ You pull back to meet her half-lidded eyes with your own and despite being equally lost in each other’s gazes, you don’t lose focus. The pads of her fingers touch a _particular_ spot and a moan escapes your throat. She captures your lips so, so, _so_ eagerly you can just feel the passion pouring from her. Who’s to say that you’re going to have all the fun? Sex is a two-way thing, and if she’s going to give you everything, well, then, _so are you._

You feel the adrenaline rush through your veins as your fingers brush past her centre. She’s still thoroughly wet and _ready_. You enter her easily and the next thing you know, the two of you are just moving against each other, uncontrolled thrusts and heated moans bouncing off the walls and you can vaguely hear her trying to make sense of her words. It’s not like there’s any point though; you’re too lost in the sensations.

It doesn’t take long for you to come—it certainly doesn’t take _her_ long to come again—and she’s _crying_ your name and it’s so hot, so heated, so _good,_ and you just don’t know anything anymore.

Catching your breath took a good two minute or so, you think.

When your eyes meet again, the first thing you do is laugh, naturally. She follows suit—because apparently, discovering that you mutually wanted _this_ is hilarious. Of course you know that’s not all of it. Of course you know that you’re laughing because, just. _God damn_ finally. Of course you know that you’re laughing because you’ve never felt so happy, so full of life since— _hm,_ since… _maybe_ the first time you ate chocolate?

… That’s probably a bad comparison. Scratch that.

It’s simple; you’re laughing because she’s laughing, because she’s here, and because it’s _her._

And, really, it feels so _fucking_ good to know that she’s laughing for the same reasons.

You kind of feel the cold now so you pull the covers over your bodies. She smiles as you smoothen her hair, and you just can’t help but to wonder how someone can look so pretty and adorable and _hot_ at the same time.

The two of you share stories together afterwards. Well, you listen to her talk, mostly. You hold her close as she tells you that her mother had passed away on that day at the hospital. You learn that the first time you met her at that station was when she was meeting up with people who could help with funeral and cemetery regulations. You learn that the second time you saw her was when she was in a hurry to speak to and convince her father to _care_. You learn that she only went to the nightclub that time because she wanted to settle things with her ex—that she didn’t want him to bother her anymore (now you remember that she wasn’t dressed to be in a _nightclub)._ You learn that she’s here today to visit her mother’s grave. You also learn that she has many relatives on her father’s side, but they don’t really consider her as family because her mother was an ‘outsider’.

Which explains why they didn’t even go to her mother’s funeral.

_“I have to deal with this myself. I always do.”_

That’s why she said those words last time.

You think she’s admirable. She’s, like, a freaking _saint_. How do people like her exist? The thoughts overwhelm you like a wildfire. You can’t help yourself—you peck her lightly on the nose and when she blinks at you, blushing adorably, you grin.

“I might be doing this backwards,” you say to her as you run circles over her cheek with your thumb.

“Hm?” She responds, blinking curiously.

 “I mean, we did sleep together first.”

She’s getting so flustered, you can actually see the pinkness turn crimson. She buries her face in the pillow but you reach for her, making her look at you. “What I mean to say is this, Alisha,” you play with her soft cheeks, squeezing them together so her lips would look funny. “I really freaking like you. I think I have since that time at the nightclub. Or maybe even earlier, I don’t know. Anyway,” you clear your throat. “Would you go out with me?”

Her emerald eyes _gleam_ in response. It’s like they’re speaking for her, and you didn’t need to wait for that kiss to know that she would say yes.

.  
.

Eventually, you introduce Alisha to your friends. They fall in love with her instantly (no surprise), just as you did, and you can see the gradual change in her.

She changes in that she becomes more relaxed (but still _very_ strict to you when it comes to serious things such as studying and eating healthy and all that stuff); her presence becomes brighter and you can feel yourself gain confidence by merely standing beside her. She changes in that she becomes less reserved (you’re mostly the one who _initiates_ , but sometimes when she’s in the mood… well, you would end up quite sore in the morning). She changes in that she smiles ( _laughs_ when you tickle her, _glares_ playfully when you tell her bad puns, and _giggles_ when you hold her) more often—she changes in that she is _happier._

And most importantly, she changes in that she is willing to let you help her.

It comes naturally. None of those cheesy, clichéd declarations of love or anything predictable is needed. She just _lets_ you help her because she wants to and she _trusts_ you. And it makes you feel so good that _you_ are the sole reason for all of this.

But you guys aren’t the _perfect_ couple, despite how it potentially seemed to be in the beginning.

No, no. Hell no. You two fight. _A lot._

It’s always something petty, though. Like, leaving the lights on when you leave the house (your fault), not washing the dishes (again, your fault), not picking up your phone when you’re home late (most definitely your fault)… the list goes on. Point is, whenever you fight, it’s stupid. It never lasts long—because you know the perfect way to make it up to her. You also know that Alisha just _melts_ when you wrap your arms around her from behind, bury your face in her neck, and whisper apologies into her ear.

She gets angry at you, but she takes care of you.

Then, there are also instances where she pisses you off, too. Like when she overworks herself (to the point that she can just pass out _at the doorway_ when she gets home), takes on too many roles for that upcoming presentation she has for her seminar (which got her really sick), or when she doesn’t remember to eat (as in, she actually _forgets_ to eat). She does all of these things even though you warn her, remind her. In a way, you care for her, just like how she cares for you.

You get angry at her, but still, you won’t ( _can’t)_ stop caring for her.

It’s all involuntary.

And it is through moments like these that make you understand—she feels the same way.

… which is probably why you are still greeted by that smile and those gleaming emerald eyes every morning, no matter how many times you piss her off. And no matter how many times she pisses you off, you find yourself coming back to her, acting like a hard-ass at first, but you— _too—_ end up grinning like an idiot when she talks to you again. 

 

                              

**Author's Note:**

> Just trying out the second-person style. It’s kinda fun. Maybe I should do one in Alisha’s POV next time. Anyway, hope you enjoyed! There’s not enough Rose/Alisha out there.
> 
>  


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